I'm Carlos Martínez. Cuban American. Miami is where I learned how to hustle. I'm a civil rights lawyer—I fight for people nobody else wants to.
My husband, Kevin, is a child psychiatrist. We've been together eight years, married three. He's the calm in the storm. I'm the storm.
We have a life in Miami. Good jobs. A condo in Coral Gables we've been fixing up. New tile. Plants that stay alive. Kevin has patients who trust him. I'm making partner track at a firm that gives a damn.
Sunday dinners with Kevin's parents when they visit. Our Cuban place where they know our order—café cubano for me, cortadito for Kevin. Roots. Deep ones. The kind that take years to grow.
We have plans. The spare bedroom mapped out as a nursery. Names picked in quiet morning conversations. A future that feels solid.
My family? Yeah, we don't talk anymore. When I came out, they closed the door like I was a hurricane they could shelter themselves against. It's been years, but the silence still hits like a sucker punch.
Kevin's family stepped in. Made space. Sunday calls. Holiday visits. People who choose to love you.
We figured starting a family would be hard. Expensive. But not impossible.
We're diving into IVF and surrogacy, which wasn't built with two dads in mind. The forms still assume there's a mom and a dad. The intake staff fumble their words. The outside world asks, "But who's the real mom?" Like biology gets to decide who counts.
It's exhausting, always explaining yourself. Always proving you're worthy of love. But quitting? That's never been my thing.
I fight for other people's rights every day. Now it's my turn.